7/10/13

Birdbrain

I’m going to kill that
bird.

Granted, there’s more than just one bird out
there. At this time of year, the whole backyard looks like a Disney film
exploded, with multitudes of squirrels, rabbits, chipmunks, and wrens,
chattering, chirping, and singing about their longing for a handsome prince
(one assumes). The wife and I can keep the windows open during the cooler
nights and wake to the soothing sounds of nature wafting in on the breeze. This
is the primary benefit of living in the country: Enjoying the sound of
songbirds outside rather than the parking lot smackdowns and Ghostface Killah CD’s
of the concrete jungle.

But there’s always this one bird, this ONE bird, who has to be heard above the
rest of the woodland chorus. And he’s there outside our window at the crack of
dawn, screeching his little birdy heart out, waking me from that dream about
making pancakes with Tina Turner I like so much. And as this bird yodels at top
volume, I lie there in sleepless agony, imagining the swift wallop I would like
to deliver with a shovel handle, bashing that bird from his tree branch like a
Spongebob piñata. As far as I’m concerned, killing someone, man or beast, for
waking you up too early should be considered justifiable homicide.

And I realize, as I fantasize about the bird’s grisly death, that what makes
this unrequested wake-up call even more irritating is that it seems to be the
sound of joy. This is cheerful chirping, a celebration of a glorious new day.
The bird actually seems to be screaming, “Neat! Neat! Neat!” The promise of
this sunrise seems neato-keen to Little Mr. Loudlungs, and he just can’t help
turning his happiness up to eleven.

It isn’t that I dislike happiness itself, of course – I’m not that far gone
yet. In fact, that’s one of the warning signs I’m turning into my father that I
check myself for vigilantly. He’s been known to project a little sarcastic
laugh when he overhears the laughter of others. He actually mocks the very idea of laughter. I certainly don’t want
to become embittered to this degree. I only ask to maintain a reasonable amount of bitterness, which
demands to know why these people are
having such a good laugh before I decide to hate them.

I can’t help feeling that if this bird’s loud proclamation was a cry of
distress - if the bird was protesting a broken wing, or he was upset about the
political turmoil in Istanbul, or his girlfriend walked out, reducing him to Boone’s
Farm and Elliott Smith records, my reaction would be one of sympathy. This is
human nature. We sympathize with the depression of others because the root
causes of bummerhood are so basic. No one cultivates their depression in
specific ways like they do with the things that make them happy. Rare is the
individual who amasses a collection of decorative thimbles because they fill
her with revulsion and sadness. No one takes annual trips to Disneyland because
each ride on the teacups brings them closer to suicide.

No, depression doesn’t work like that. Depression seems common, universal - inspired
by understandable, unavoidable tragedies - and we relate to it instantly. Depression
fixates on the big stuff: the dead grandma, the career destroyed by one’s
foosball addiction, the fear of Canada developing nuclear weapons, and so on.
We nod in solemn agreement when anyone shares their sad tale of having to put
their parakeet to sleep. We relate to the big bringdown. But someone else’s
happiness is nearly always stupid. They’re giddy over a Robocop remake, or how
tasty the cheese fries are, or the opportunity to meet Donny Most. Stupid,
low-calorie happiness over specific stuff we don’t care about – what’s not to
hate?

I know this irritation at
a joyful noise is pure jealousy on my part. I’m one of those seething
malcontents still clinging to the youthful conclusion that only depressing
topics have any real depth and are therefore worthy of dark, teenage poetry.
Happiness is a spontaneous, emotional response, lacking in the brooding
contemplation usually afforded, say, a disfiguring train accident or
irreversible stains on an expensive new Snuggie. I want to appear deep, and the
happiness of others is harshing my darkness.

But great spiritual
leaders from the Dalai Lama to Fat Albert insist that attitudes like mine are
the devil’s superdome. To connect with the joy of others, they say, we must
begin by voicing our appreciation for them and their disastrous haircuts. We
tap into our own happiness, so the infomercials tell me, by pronouncing our gratitude
for the people and environments around us, regardless of how irritating they are. This is the whole point of
Thanksgiving, for example - a holiday where we are forced to express love for
our family members despite the tension between Gertrude and Uncle Slim over the
long-remembered ball peen hammer incident. We should remain focused on
positivity and habitually speak our appreciation for life’s discount parade,
just as the piercing early bird does as he gives thanks for the sunrise, the
backyard bounty, and the deliciousness of his fellow woodland creatures.

So, I’m trying to do this. Really, I am. I’m trying to learn how to express
these declarations of simple gratitude and admiration like my Croc-wearing
peers are able to do. I want to openly marvel at someone’s spiffy, new
pentagram tattoo or get giddy over an upcoming episode of “Zombie Chef.” But
the best I’ve been able to manage so far – the only thing that comes naturally
– is a sort of Vegas-style, Rat Pack schmoozing - that kind of show-biz false
sincerity that keeps telethons and Shriner’s conventions running at a steady
clip. I channel a maudlin Jerry Lewis, or perhaps the Chairman himself, to
deliver some glamorized affirmation to my fellow man. I mean, I may have difficulty
telling a co-worker his shirt looks nice, but I have no problem throwing my arm
around his shoulder and loudly proclaiming:

“Ladies and gentlemen, if I can get serious for a minute, I want to tell you
right now that this man right here – this warm, wonderful man – is one of the
most talented, funny, and generous human being I have ever had the pleasure of
working with. This man, who is simply a giant in our industry, is a truly
special individual – a gifted professional who’s brought joy to our hearts for
years – and I’m proud to call him my friend. Let’s hear it for this superstar.”

It’s schmaltz, but it’s start, right? I figure if I practice this kind of
approach long enough, I can work my way back down to more direct expressions of
appreciation. Pretty soon I’ll be greeting the dawn with a heartfelt “Neat!
Neat! Neat!”

But until then, I just want to say thank you to all of you beautiful people out
there. You’re one in a million, and I really mean that. Give yourselves a big
hand.

Who's Responsible for This?!

is an illustrator and opinionated crank living in the bygone century known as South Carolina. His wide variety of neurotic quirks and extreme sensitivity to broad social trends are chronicled as The Symptoms, a continuing blog of sophisticated tantrums. Ashley's work has appeared in many defunct publications and hard-to-sell books. He is considered a complete failure by those envious of his genius. He has a website for some reason: www.ashleyholt.com